Thick as Blood
by Asteraceae
Summary: Two expats, trying to navigate the treacherous waters of the French Resistance, find the Basterds at their door. The wolves are on every side, and doors are steadily shutting in their faces. Stiglitz/OC
1. Chapter 1

The winter night was crisp, nippy enough that any exposed skin felt tight and raw. The wind wasn't too bad, but the clouds obscuring the stars over the mountain peaks to the northeast promised to change that. It was still, quiet; Aldo Raine could almost pretend he was in the foothills of the Smokies back home. Except Tennessee never got this cold, and Hirschberg wasn't there, jiggling his goddamn leg.

"Would you cut that shit out," Aldo hissed, finally snapping. Lord knew he cut these boys a lot of slack, drawing on reserves of patience he didn't know he had, but goddamn if he was going to listen to that steady thumping of Hirschberg's heel hitting the forest floor.

"Sorry, sir," Hirschberg muttered, a faint black outline to his left. "Fuckin' pins an' needles an' shit. It's cold as a nun's pussy out here. Can we go in yet, or what?"

Aldo heaved a long-suffering sigh, turning back to the house they were observing. It was supposedly a new rendezvous point with their resistance pals; his CO said something about a wealthy, disgruntled Swiss expat and promised fresh guns and ammunition. And food. And hopefully a nice glass of whiskey, too, he mused, though that might be a stretch.

He had to admit Hirschberg was right: it was freezing, and late- approaching midnight, if he had to wager. Smoke curled lazily from one of the chimneys poking over the roofline of the large house, and a soft glow from two of the windows promised at least one person was awake. Expecting them, he hoped; the all-clear signal would be candles in two of the windows, and they had been here long enough to make sure nothing was amiss. No Nazi cars parked in front, no soldiers creeping on watch, no shouts or gunfire. Just a warm house on a cold night.

"Alright," he finally relented. "Wicki, Stiglitz, you go to the door. Give us a whistle if it checks out." He didn't receive an answer, but shadows detached and moved across the forest floor. He could feel a collective breath being held as the two soldiers approached the house, and the door swung open. Faint strains of an exchange were carried over by the wind and the stillness, but it was in German, and too distant to hear, anyways. When a quick two-note whistle that could have been a birdcall sounded, there was a group exhale, and they moved forwards quietly. Or in Hirschberg's case, shuffled along while muttering curses about his dead foot.

When he was coming up the steps of the wide porch, the Basterds hot on his heels, more than ready for some warmth and food, he was surprised to see a redheaded girl- woman, he corrected himself, once he got closer- standing in the door, faintly illuminated by the light spilling out from the doorframe. He could practically hear the boys perk up behind him, and gritted his teeth. Now he had to keep a sharp eye on them, make sure they didn't fool around with this Swiss bastard's daughter or wife or what-the-hell ever she was and jeopardize this contact- a situation that happened a few times before, thanks to Donowitz. When Wicki caught his eye, raising his eyebrows in his usual subtle manner, he didn't understand what the man was trying to get across. But when the ginger gave him a wide, toothy smile and sang out "My countrymen!" in a clear, sure-as-can-be American accent, his own eyebrows shot up into his hairline. I'll be damned, he thought.

Tromping up into the doorframe, he noticed the girl didn't seem at all intimidated by the ten men scattered on her front porch. In fact, she stuck her hand out, and greeted him with "Lieutenant Raine?"

"Who the fuck are you? And where's our goddamn contact?" He barked back, not taking her hand. He could hear one of the men snicker behind him, and would have turned around and boxed him behind the ear if he wasn't both horrified and intrigued by this sudden development of an American girl in the middle of an occupied country.

She simply took his irritation in stride, moving aside to let them into the house. "Don't worry. Your, um, contact is in the study, at the end of the hall and to the right. The kitchen's opposite, if you're hungry. And I'm Annie Haywood," she intoned, her smile firmly in place. He was glad she found this so damn amusing, he snorted as he stomped past her, only turning to snap "Donowitz!" when he heard a distinctive Boston accent drawl "Hey, sweetheart" behind him. But apparently the promise of food trumped the possibility of getting laid, because Utivich, bless his little virgin heart, practically sprinted past him into the kitchen, where a meaty smell drifted past. Venison, if he wasn't wrong.

Stiglitz, Wicki, and Donowitz all followed him without him motioning to the end of the hall, giving him the time to glance around the house. Someone obviously wealthy lived here: hunting rifles and trophies up on the wall, lots of polished wood, wide glass windows and what looked like electric lights overhead- a rarity, out in the French boonies. Turning the corner into the study, his first impression was of the towering bookcases, floor-to-ceiling, so tall they needed one of those ridiculous rolling ladders to reach the top shelves. The heat of the fire practically slapped him, making his head snap to the desk across from it. He doubted his eyebrows could go any higher, but goddamn if they didn't try, because rising from the massive leather desk chair and the stacks of paper thrown across the desk was a tall, willowy, blonde woman, Hitler's wet dream if he ever saw one. Masses of curly blonde hair, high, elegant cheekbones, a dainty jaw, smoky brown eyes- he could feel his officer's eyes snap to her. She held their attention easily, giving them a small smile and an outstretched hand.

"Lieutenant Raine," she said, speaking with a crisp European accent not unlike Stiglitz's. Swiss, he realized, having never heard a Swiss accent before. "I'm so glad you've made it here intact," she finished, but was cut off by another snapped "Who the fuck are you? And are there any men in this goddamn house? 'Cause you sure as hell ain't named Heinrich Wolfflin." His drawl butchered the name, but he didn't really give a shit if this Nazi bride was offended. "No, she sure isn't," Donny said appreciatively, putting his hands on his hips and eyeing her up with a manic grin.

"Don't worry, he didn't shake my hand, either," Annie drawled, coming in to flop dramatically on one of the leather couches, immediately lighting a cigarette. He didn't spare the girl a glance, itching to take a snuff out of his box.

Blondie, much like her companion, didn't seem at all put off. "No, I'm not. I'm his daughter, Adriana Wolfflin," she said, amicably.

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?" Aldo snapped, feeling peevish. Then he saw the photograph hanging above the fireplace, of a brawny blonde man, a waifish blonde woman, and a younger, chubbier version of the girl in front of him, posed around what looked like a dead lion somewhere grassy and flat. That explains the trophies, he thought, then felt like a fool, but he always stuck to his guns.

"Yes," Adriana answered simply, sitting back on the edge of her desk. "My family owns the Wolfflin firearms company," she continued, conversationally, as if she was used to hulking soldiers tramping through her house and vaguely menacing her. Although, all thing considered, she probably was. A glance over his shoulder to Wicki and Stiglitz confirmed this, as both gave him a nod. So a real company and a real family, apparently both real successful, judging by the air of old money the place and her manner conveyed. "I learned to shoot on a Wolfflin rifle when I was young," Wicki chimed in, a tad wistfully, as if he was reminiscing. A sharpish glare from Aldo shut him up, but Adriana beamed at him. "You see? They're good guns. The best, but I'm a bit biased," she said with another small smile, one that reeked of self-satisfaction.

"So where's daddy, then, princess?" Aldo intoned suspiciously, crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to trust this Swiss bitch an inch. Adriana heaved a sigh, going over to a decanter on the desk, and to Aldo's great relief, poured out several glasses of whiskey, handing them around. Annie, watching the unfolding drama with mild curiosity, made a noise of protest that she didn't receive one, but was roundly ignored. Sipping from her glass, Aldo felt his irritation grow, noting that she shared the same relaxed approach to other people's time as Stiglitz, who could turn the lighting of a cigarette into a five-minute production before getting around to answering his commander's question.

Just when he was about to smack the glass straight out of her hand, she answered. "He's been missing in North Africa for just under a year," she said simply and without emotion, as if remarking on the weather. "I've been running the company. My mother is dead and I have no other siblings, so it falls on me," she continued, sipping from her glass and gazing at him evenly. Donny snorted, Wicki scoffed, and even Stiglitz cracked a smirk- the closest he ever got to a smile- and Aldo stared in disbelief.

"You been runnin' a company in your daddy's name for a year? What the hell you doin' helpin' out the resistance, then?" He spat out, eyebrows receiving another workout. He managed to take a sip of whiskey, and was pacified somewhat. Ahh, home-made liquor.

"Yes," she said again, simply. "I have been. The reason I am helping the resistance is because I dislike the Nazis. A fascist economy brings down the European economy. It's all a bit precarious. I refuse to hold any contracts with the German government, so," she shrugged here. "They don't like having money and power out of their grasp. I doubt they would invade, but Hitler is a dangerous neighbor, and I refuse to let my family's company fall into the hands of a fascist state," she finished, saying the final phrase with such a strong air of disdain that it practically fell on the floor.

Donny's smirk was wiped clean off of his face, though Stiglitz's only grew. "I studied economics," she supplied with an indifferent shrug.

"God Almighty," Aldo intoned, rolling his eyes heavenward and reaching for his snuff box.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, let me get this straight and neat," Aldo said, leaning forward on the wooden bench in the kitchen. A steaming bowl of stewed venison was in front of him, which Kagan was eyeing hungrily, waiting for a moment to swoop in and seize it. The others had wolfed down theirs before the officers even left the study, and were now basking lazily in the warmth of the fire in the kitchen. "You sit out here in this eee-state," he drawled, "signin' dear ol' dad's name to all the paperwork, bankin' on the family name—and you don't get hassled none?" He finally took a chunk of venison when Kagan's hand was mere inches from his work, eliciting some mumbled curses.

Adriana shook her head, pursing her lips. Neither she nor the other one, Annie, were eating; so far, they seemed to exist off of whiskey and cigarettes. "I do, sometimes," she admitted warily. "But the Nazis keep their distance. It helps that I'm Swiss. If they want to speak with me, they tend to summon me. I suppose it makes them feel powerful, like they could snatch it all away if they wanted," she pondered, finally stubbing out her dog end of a cigarette and dropping it into her empty glass.

"They're all about the power play," Annie chimed in from the other end of the long wooden table, where she was feeding chunks of stale bread to a large, lolling wolfhound. "If it makes them look big and scary and tough, they'll do it. Why else would they make you go all the way to them, so they can sit at their big desks and wave their flags and march their enlisted up and down for your benefit?" This elicited an appreciative snort from Donny, which made Annie pin him with a hard stare.

"I wouldn't go casting stones about that, if I were you," she drawled to him, gesturing to his bat and raising her eyebrows. Picking up on what she meant, his lazy demeanor turned surly, and his dark eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened to say something that he would surely regret as the other men snickered, Hirschberg elbowing Utivich, who was turning a faint shade of pink from secondhand embarrassment.

Cutting in before the conversation could deteriorate any further, Wicki looked at Annie seriously. "What are you doing here?" He asked, a dark shadow behind his words hinting at a threat, if she cared to look.

She gave him a lazy smile in return, a hint of bite in her own words as she said, very carefully, "My daddy was a communist."

All heads, previously either dozing or only half-listening, swung to face her. Adriana smiled faintly, watching this play out.

"Like the Ruskies?" Hirschberg asked, and wilted when Annie fixed him with a stare that could have melted a hole in a stone wall. "No," she said emphatically. "Not like those nepotistic oligarchs. He helped found the IWW," she added, pride coloring her voice.

Aldo let out a laugh, genuinely amused for the first time all night. "Your papa was a wobbly?" He chuckled. "Got-damn, girl, no wonder Roosevelt ain't welcomin' you back with open arms. Where is he now? Leadin' another peasant revolt?"

Her face flamed in anger from his teasing, and she snapped "No, he's dead. He was falsely accused of murder before he left, so I'm proud to not go back," she declared, earning what seemed like a collective eye roll. "Capitalist pigs," she added faintly, as an afterthought.

"Christ on a bicycle, what a weird fuckin' world it is," Aldo shook his head and muttered to himself, finishing his meal. The two girls were most definitely the only occupants at the moment- excepting what could be anywhere between two and five dogs, he wasn't sure. The house was large and gracious, obviously built on the assumption that there would be a full staff of servants. The oversized fireplaces were proof enough of that, as were the long wooden tables they were sat at. The room was cozy and homely, classic French peasant: herbs and dried meat hanging from the ceiling, copper pots hung over the stove, dogs underfoot. Warm, he thought to himself. Nice. He could see why the Swiss girl decided to take up residence here, especially if the situation was as delicate as she hinted at.

The Basterds seemed to collectively decide to sleep in the kitchen with the fire, though Kagan and Sakowitz had already slipped out for first watch. Adriana rose, indicating she was going to retire; Annie followed soon after. Aldo noted with quiet dread the way Stiglitz's eyes seemed to follow the Swiss girl, not looking forward to discouraging the German. Stiglitz was a dangerous beast, perhaps more so than Donny, because when push came to shove, he wasn't sure if Stiglitz would obey his orders if they ran counter to something he really, truly wanted.

Like a name off of his list. Or a beautiful woman, who, even he had to admit, was on the dangerous side of clever.

* * *

><p>Standing in front of her bedroom window, the lantern she used to guide her way up extinguished so she could better see the view, Adriana tensed when she heard a floorboard creak behind her.<p>

"Yes?" She asked, in German, already suspecting who it was, and knowing that she wouldn't have heard him if he didn't want her to.

"Admiring the view?" His gravelly voice intoned, and her hair stood on end when she realized that he was much closer than she thought. She didn't turn, but flinched slightly when she felt his breath on her hair. He wasn't touching her, but she could feel the heat from his body, and just the sense of him being there was enough. He knew it, too, the smug bastard.

"Why not? It's mine to admire," She responded quietly. His faint chuckle at that blew a strand of hair in her face, and she impatiently moved to tuck it behind her ear. "Why, exactly, are you in my bedroom?"

"There are a few reasons, but I don't think you'd like to hear them," he promised lowly, and she bit her lip, schooling herself to not snap at him. "I'm just wondering, a lovely, rich, lonely girl like you," he started, and she could see the faint reflection of his face in the glass. She tried not to look at it, focusing instead on the open, empty pastures and the distant tree line. "You should have Nazi suitors beating down your door. An established company, a big bank account, and a beautiful woman? It's all a bit hard to resist," he smirked, and she looked down, suddenly liking him less.

"I wouldn't presume to know the minds of men," she responded quietly, ducking out from in front of him. "You should rest," she advised as she drifted towards her wardrobe. She didn't hear him leave, but the sudden coolness at her back and vast emptiness in the room told her she was alone once more.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Annie's father is based on the real Socialist leader Big Bill Haywood. He did flee the country after being accused (probably rightly so) of murder, but didn't have any wife or kids. He died, drunk and alone, in Moscow in the late 1920's.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning as the sun rose weakly over the treeline, Adriana found herself in the saddle of her father's horse. She hadn't bothered to enter the kitchen once she woke, preferring to avoid any Basterds. The cold air was much more refreshing than breakfast, anyways; she savored the sharpness of it and the way it seemed to wake her whole body. Faustus seemed to feel the same. He was moving eagerly under her leg, his handsome face swinging to look at the trees around them, breath steaming out in great clouds that hung around his nose momentarily. The world was quiet this far out into the property, with the soft creaking of the leather saddle, Faustus' snorting breaths, and the gusts of wind in the trees as the only soundtrack.

She was curving along the base of the nearest mountain, following a hunter's path through the trees running parallel to a stream that surged with mountain runoff in the spring and summer. Now, however, it was iced over, and Adriana couldn't shake the feeling of unease that the stillness of the winter woods gave her. The trees stretched out along the path, forming a tunnel that never seemed to grow shorter; though she knew the property well, she momentarily felt as if she were lost or out of time, cut adrift from the world. The path stretched ahead of and behind her, seeming to move with her, keeping her stuck forever. Feeling a tightening in her chest, a sudden burst of panic seized her. Faustus felt it, and surged forwards under her, legs swallowing the path. Adriana let him run, giving him his head. For a wild moment, she felt that the only way to escape was to run, as fast and as long as the world would allow.

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Aldo Raine sat on a bench on the wide, flagged stone patio behind the house, having a leisurely smoke as he observed his men on watch, checking their weapons, preparing to leave the following day. They had decided to move closer to Paris, where the pickings were riper; he enjoyed the solitude of the mountain lodge, but there was shit to be done, asses to be kicked. Hitler don't stop for nothing, so neither did the Basterds. The American girl, Annie, had told him that Adriana had gone out riding early in the morning as she pounded the tar out of some bread dough when he rose for breakfast; he didn't bother telling her that Donowitz had already provided him with that tidbit. The walloping she laid down on the dough was more useful, and she had enough foresight to bake several loaves. Good, hearty, peasant bread, the kind his granny would make in the fall, cutting off slices to eat by the woodstove as soon as they came out.  
>He wasn't surprised when he saw the mounted Adriana burst out of the treeline on the far side of the fenced field below him, the massive black horse collecting himself together now that they were out in the open. There was something about women and horses, he mused, watching the pair slow to a bouncy, rocking horse canter. The women in the Smokies could ride just as well as the men, maybe even better—the skittishness of both creatures seemed to make them, if not cut from the same cloth, then at least kindred spirits. Or maybe it was the wandering soul of them both, the urge to get up and move and run; he didn't know what corners of a girl's being latched onto the freedom that came with riding a horse, and he doubted he ever would. <p>

Men, however, he knew very well, he mused as Hugo Stiglitz deigned to join him. Too well, if he was honest. The shit he had to address with this band of soldiers was enough to make him never leave his wife and daughters again, barring the door and taking a shot at any man that came close. That way he would never have to hear two grown-ass men comparing their relatively poor experience with women and break up the resulting fight; a pleasure that Utivich and Kagan had given him early this morning. Or deal with the got-damn macho posturing Donny seemed to constantly adopt.

"Your people's neighbors with this girl's people," Aldo drawled, studying Stiglitz out of the corner of his eye. He was like a bull, he got affronted if you looked him dead in the eye. Best to edge in from the side, both in person and in conversation. "What charms have these bastards got that lets 'em get away with not stickin' their nose in a war that's sittin' on their doorstep?"

Exactly like a bull, Stiglitz seemed to know his intentions, and could side-step them with ease. But Raine could bet his eyes were glued to the horse and rider, now drifting along at a walk, two figures alone in the world. An opening he would sure as shit save for later. It was always useful to know his men's weaknesses, like Wicki's affinity for whores or Hirschburg's tendency to get moody whenever anyone reminisced about home. 

"Some like Nazis, some don't," he eventually supplied, with an indifferent shrug. 

"Dammit, Stiglitz, can we trust this bitch in the long haul or not?" Aldo snapped, wanted to beat the little smirk that popped up on Stiglitz's face once he saw he got a rise out of the lieutenant.

"Yes," he supplied, simply. At Aldo's snort of irritation, he eventually continued. "She wouldn't offer her home if she didn't want to have us in her debt. And two women, alone in the mountains?" He raised an eyebrow, and Aldo got his drift. A test, seeing the nature of the guerilla soldiers. Though he doubted either of these girls were strangers to dealing with the business end of men.

"She ain't tellin' us the whole truth, I don't think," he mused, and Stiglitz grunted in confirmation, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"You be careful," he added, as an afterthought. At Stiglitz's incredulous look, Aldo glared. "You know what I mean," he said darkly, and Stiglitz chuckled.

"She can't stand on her own forever," he promised, watching the horse and rider disappear into the low-slung stable, swallowed into the darkness of the empty building.


	4. Chapter 4

The day continued on, a depressing combination of cloudy and brutally cold. All of the Basterds felt restless, antsy; sending them out hunting deeper in Adriana's property failed to release some of their energy.

Annie sat listlessly in front of the large windows at the back of the house, overlooking the stone patio, gardens, and meandering path down to stables and tree line. Smoke curled from her cigarette, but she seemed uninterested in smoking it. One of her pale hands rested in the fold of her book, holding her place.

"'Roman Lives'?" Adriana questioned as she walked into the room, glancing at the book in Annie's lap. She stirred, but didn't look at her friend, keeping her sly smile to herself.

"Boring book for a boring day," she said, shrugging and finally taking a drag of her cigarette, making a face when she realized she had let it burn down in her daze.

"Isn't it too bourgeoisie for you?" Adriana asked, her voice playful as she sat next to Annie and slipped off her boots, curling her feet under her.

"Know your enemy," she said, her words trailing off when Aldo stomped into the room dramatically. He stopped when he saw both of the women sitting on the couch, and was reminded briefly of cats when they turned to look at him at the same time, expressions guarded, eyes unknowable.

He produced a sheet of paper and handed it to Adriana with a flourish, who took it with a frown, eyes skimming over it.

"That's for you," he said, unnecessarily.

"How did you get this?" Adriana asked, raising her eyebrows as she folded it again and looked at him, meeting Aldo evenly. She wasn't afraid of him, which bothered Aldo, because she should be.

He gave her a grin like a shark. "Intercepted a courier a few miles up the road."

She heaved a dramatic sigh, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes at her theatricalities.

"Of course. Well, I assume you read it," she said, rising to slip on her boots again.

"Yer got-damn right," Aldo said, with entirely too much self-satisfaction. "_And_," he paused for effect, raising a finger, though neither of the women seemed to appreciate it. "We got a plan." He finished with a vicious smile, all teeth and malice.

""_The poor go to war, to fight and die for the delights, riches, and superfluities of others_,"" Annie read aloud from the book in an ominous tone. She was ignored.

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The plan was easy enough to hear when Aldo briefed her on her role, but seemed so much more complex when she was in the thick of it.

"The weather is foul, but we shouldn't let it darken our moods," the Nazi officer across from her said, swaying as the bucket car bumped along the road leading from her estate. He treated her to an overly bright smile that did not reach his eyes.

_I know what you want_, Adriana thought. _Your act is pathetic and transparent_. She didn't care to remember his name, skimming over it on the telegram he had sent her.

"Of course, forgive me," she chimed in German, tilting her head and giving a soft smile that would charm him. "It is an admirable strength to separate one's emotions from the environment and feel happy even when you are given cause to feel sadness," she chirped to him, making him smile. He saw only a compliment.

_You are all the same._

"The weather is much friendlier in Paris," he said, his attempt at a subtle transition painfully obvious to her. "You should consider moving there permanently. These mountains are dangerous, especially in winter. And all the snow could drive one mad."

"I find the snow refreshing," she said mildly, turning to look out the window lest her expression betray her. "It hides all flaws and makes the world beautiful. A blank slate," she mused, watching the snowflakes drift down.

It was the first snowfall of the year, and judging from the flat, grey sky, it likely wouldn't stop until they were well buried. She would like to be ensconced in her home before it well and truly set in, and cursed the Basterds, wishing they would hurry up.

"White does have that effect," he said, leaning forward, laying a hand on her knee. Her skin crawled at the touch, but she channeled it into a cold smile. For a moment, he saw her true feelings, and his expression shifted minutely. He recoiled.

"Such a pity our flesh doesn't hide our flaws, then," she said, as the car lurched to a halt. There were questions shouted in German, before gunshots rang out. The soldiers sitting next to her traded glances before jumping out of the car. They didn't make it far; blood coated the window.

Adriana didn't look, her brown eyes boring into the officer's, her smile still cold.

"Stay here!" The officer ordered, his voice tense and scared as he followed the soldiers. Adriana had enjoyed watching the disintegration of his confidence through the whole journey, and refused to feel guilty. She found she had that effect on men.

He only made it half a step before his head exploded in a burst of blood. She stared blankly ahead, adjusting the skirt of her dress where it had been mussed from his touch. The car door was yanked open, and before she could look to see which Basterd it was, she found herself pulled upright and into a pair of hard, cold arms. His hand felt like a vice on her arm; she was painfully aware of the other finding the small of her back. It was so large it nearly covered it, his fingers curling slightly into her side.

_Oh_.

"Are you alright?" He asked, in German, his voice like gravel next to her ear.

"Yes," she answered, giving in to the temptation and leaning her forehead against his chest. She didn't meet his eyes, fearing she would lose her grip on her emotions at the violence. She was no stranger to blood or conflict, but the stench of all the blood and gunpowder made her feel slightly nauseous.

The snow was landing in the pools of blood, already cooling it and catching on it.

He seemed to sense her need, and let her rest against him for a moment. Her hands fisted into his jacket, and she drew in a great, shuddering breath. Hugo felt her tremble, and wondered whether it was from the cold or the fear.

"You're safe now," he rumbled, running his hand up her arm, resting on her shoulder. He wanted to grab a fistful of her hair, but resisted the temptation.

"I was never in any danger," she replied, tilting her head back to look at him with a small smile.

It was foolish of him to wonder, he thought. He quickly slipped off his scarf and wrapped it around her neck, feeling a bright spark in his chest as her smile broadened in gratitude and she settled into the warm fabric.

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The scene unfolded as it usually did. The bodies were dragged off the road and scalped, the cars likewise hidden in the woods. Some boots and jackets were swiped off of the corpses where the fits were close enough.

The Basterds now encircled the poor enlisted who had been captured. There were two, and both were afraid, blinking blearily and trembling as snow blew into their eyes. They were reciting what they knew without hesitation, much to the glee of the Basterds who hooted and hollered at their cowardice.

Donny was irritated that he wouldn't get to bash in some skulls with his bat, but Hugo was glad for it.

Adriana stood beside him, immobile at the proceedings. He wanted to spare her the gory details of their doings, though he suspected she would chafe at the idea of being protected by him.

_You think I am so weak to be afraid of death?_

One of his hands stayed on her back, keeping her next to him. Aldo had tried to sweep her away with him, hoping to use her as some kind of leverage in the interrogation if they needed it, but dropped the idea at the way Hugo's face had hardened when he came for her. He chose tact over force, and left her with him.

He ended up not needing her, anyways.

Once all the corpses were done and dusted, Adriana let out a heavy sigh, leaving Hugo's side to approach Aldo and Donny. She didn't notice Hugo immediately following her, the other Basterds parting to allow him through.

_Oh no_, thought Aldo as he saw it. This could fuck shit up real fuckin' fast.

"I should like to return before the snow sets in," she said, in her strange, clipped accent, stepping over a body, ignoring the way her dress trailed over his bloody torso and stained the grey fabric. "It will make travelling difficult if we wait too much longer."

He knew she was right. The snow was gathering already, collecting enough to sink the soles of his boots into.

He bared another grin to his soldiers, who were still hopped up on the wild adrenaline that came with killing.

"You heard the lady," he barked, and Adriana smiled in relief.


	5. Chapter 5

As often happened with snowy days, the time passed slowly, stretched out flat and worn thin like the grey snow clouds that pressed down. Hours crept by slow, but events piled up like wrinkles in a blanket—things happened not at all, then all at once.

As Adriana had predicted, the snow soon made the mountain road out of her estate impassable. They were stuck in her home, an imposition that Aldo chafed at deeply, especially given that there wasn't a way for him to communicate with either the French resistance or his superiors. He was stuck without a way to further his plan, treading water, pacing the floor and occasionally looking out the window to stare at the sky and curse the god that let him think taking shelter in a house in the Alps at the start of winter was anything but pure foolishness.

Then Wicki tapped him on the shoulder and handed him the newspaper he had grabbed from their ambush of Adriana's would-be suitor. _Princess was out of his league anyways_, he thought, rounding the corner from the hallway to the study, intending to have some peace and quiet and a good thorough peruse of whatever it was Wicki wanted him to read. He trusted the Austrian's judgement; the man had a good handle on what made people tick. A good eye for weakness.

As he stepped into the doorframe, the mood of the room reached out and grabbed him before he processed what he was seeing: Stiglitz, sleeves pushed up, sitting languidly on the chaise before that oversized fireplace Aldo was so fond of. Adriana, silhouetted with her back to the fire, seated on the rug before Stiglitz. Both had lit cigarettes and cups of coffee, but Stiglitz's hand—a massive, calloused paw—was resting gently on Adriana's dainty shoulder. Aldo saw his thumb sweep over her collarbone before he jerked back and out of the doorframe, standing in the hallway, staring blankly at the wall.

He felt like he may as well have walked in on them fucking on the desk; both of them treated their personal space like it was the last barrier between them and the devil and she didn't strike him like the kind of woman to seat herself on the floor before a man. Everything those two did had weight to it, as if they were living in their own private stage drama, and Aldo didn't doubt for a goddamn minute that what he just witnessed was something either of them would admit to letting happen.

Stiglitz didn't know how to be tender, and that woman didn't know how to be delicate.

_They know each other already_, the thought struck him, and he smacked the forgotten paper into his other palm in the sheer wave of rage that took him. These fuckin' Europeans, actin' like being honest and shooting straight could fuckin' kill 'em, and what game were they playing at? Why didn't he realize it before, with him following her like a wolf after blood and her walkin' around like a princess, but lookin' at him like he had the keys to the castle?

Aldo stomped his ass into the sitting room, tugging his moustache in irritation. This wasn't unusual behaviour for him, so he was ignored; Aldo preferred it like that, it gave him time to get his thoughts in order and to puzzle out what the fuck those two were up to and what the fuck they would do next.

Just for somewhere to point his eyes, he snapped open the paper, and almost forgot about the not-so-happy couple in the next room. Everything was in French, unremarkably, but Wicki had helpfully scrawled some translations in the margins.

_CMNDT GOTTLEIB MURDERED_, underneath a picture of the Nazi officer. '_Fourth party official killed in two weeks'_, alongside _'killer roams free in Paris'_.

The Basterds hadn't set foot in Paris yet; hadn't come close.

Aldo rubbed his temples, feeling a drawing tightness. _Son of a bitch_, he thought, then again, _son of a bitch! _

Whoever this man—or men—were, they were forcing his hand. Aldo blew out hard through his nose, flipping the paper back shut. He had been planning to loop around Paris and find the supply line the Resistance had told him about, but he wasn't about to let someone else have the glory of Natzi killin' when the killin' was good.

Soon as the storm broke, they were headed to Paris.


	6. Chapter 6

Adriana had been seated on the chaise in front of the fire when Hugo came into the room. As soon as she looked up and saw him, it felt like her whole body came alive; even just from making eye contact, she felt heat rise in her cheeks, and she looked back down demurely.

_Stupid girl, control yourself_, she thought, her hands suddenly nervous and unable to settle. She flipped the pages of her novel between her fingers, trying to ignore the shaking in her hand as Stiglitz came up behind her. Neither of them spoke for a moment, Adriana willing the stoic German to break the silence first, yearning for him to say something to her. Anything.

"Were you hurt at all today?" Adriana's nerves won out, and she kicked herself inwardly, but forced herself to remain facing forwards. She spoke in English. German spoken between them felt like a secret, even though both Annie and Wicki could also speak it. She wanted to keep things impersonal between them, but it seemed far too late for that; Hugo was a force of nature with a pull like the ocean.

She felt his faint chuckle more than she heard it. "No," he said, and she felt pressure on her back as he stepped closer; she jumped forwards before he had the chance to touch her.

"I am relieved to hear so," she said automatically, politely, impersonally. His blue eyes, normally so cold, reeled her in. She was sure he heard the small, sharp inhale she took as their gazes locked from the uptick at the corner of his mouth, and she resented him for it. _Smug, vile bastard!_

They began the complicated dance of moving towards and away from each other, each movement under the pretence of doing something else.

He stepped around the chaise, keeping her gaze as he knelt to the floor to light the fireplace. As he struck a match, she quickly moved backwards to sit on the chaise. The fire lit, he rose to face her; she jumped off the chaise to replace her book on the shelf. He didn't move as she went past, forcing her to swing her shoulders sideways to pass without touching him. He sprawled on the chaise; effortless, languid, smug, he covered the width of it with his arms outstretched on the back. She stood facing the bookcase for a moment, before turning back to face him.

She frowned, and he chucked genuinely, enjoying having outmanoeuvred her around the room. She would not sit next to him, being too close to his body and too close to being tucked under his arm; her only option was to sit on the floor before him. Leaving the room was out of the question- it was rude, and more importantly, it allowed him to think he could affect her so deeply.

She sat next to the fire, half facing it to give the idea she had chosen her spot for the warmth.

"You are afraid of me," he said in German, his small smile hinting at something dark.

She was.

_He is a dangerous man, do not forget this. You can chain a wolf but it will never be a pet._

"I am not," she insisted, also in German, then cursed herself for following his lead.

His smile fell slightly, blue eyes shifting. Not to something menacing, but something deep, and Adriana forced herself to remain still as he extended one hand to gently sweep his thumb over her collarbone.

"You are, lamb," he said, and she wasn't sure whether he revelled in her fear or was troubled. He was unreadable when he wanted to be, like a stone.

Her shoulder was small, and fragile under his hand. She tried to remove her thoughts from what his hands had done, but found all she could think about was his touch. Her skin felt electric and flush.

His touch was so delicate, and her eyes swung to lock onto his; the world fell away.

"I am not. I unleashed you," she whispered.

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Annie, thanks to her hair, was the first thing your eyes jumped to when you walked into a room she was in. Wicki mused on this, letting his eyes trail down her body as she stood with her back to him, facing a painting propped against a stone wall in the unused dining room.

He had been on his way to the kitchen, but he was an opportunist and took the opportunity to admire where and when he could.

"Can I help you?" Annie asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Just admiring the art," he returned with a smile, pleased with the smirk she shot back to him.

"Connoisseur of 17th century artwork, are you?" She quipped, bumping him with her elbow slightly as he came to stand next to her, examining the painting.

"Soldiers can't be art lovers?" He said, feigning hurt but smiling at her. She smiled back, and shook her head with a laugh as she looked back at the painting.

"What is it of?" He asked, lowly, and Annie waved her hand vaguely at the painting. A winged woman, conveniently topless, one foot on top of a slain man. "_Allegory of Victory_—the woman is the goddess Nike. I don't know who the man is, though," she mused, tilting her head, before turning to leave the room.

"Is it supposed to be any specific man?" Wicki asked, watching her from the corner of his eye.

Annie gave him a parting witticism. "No, probably not. They're all interchangeable in the end, aren't they?"

Wicki laughed out loud, shoving his hands back in his pockets, deeply amused with the playful girl. More fun than Adriana, at any rate.

Winged women indeed.

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The Basterds left that night.

The snowstorm had broken, with the next day looking to be sunny enough to start melting snow; Aldo decided that the drive to Paris could easily be attempted. Plus his legs were getting to itching, he didn't like to be so settled for so long.

Aldo had thanked Adriana deeply for her hospitality—and he was grateful. Restful periods free from the lingering background tension of constantly being prepared to run or fight were a rare thing for them. He didn't trust the woman, not by a mile, but she had put herself in danger for them.

He kissed her cheek, and pulled back to look at her. Most of the other Basterds were outside in the cars taken from Adriana's late admirer; Hirschberg was rounding up the last of the weapons. Hugo was already in front seat of one. He was silent, which wasn't unusual for him, but Aldo couldn't help but see it as sulking at being pulled away from his woman.

Adriana was composed, but he had seen the way she and Hugo had said their goodbyes—she laid one hand on his chest, and he said something to her in German. Then he passed her a knife. Her hands clutched it to her chest, and it was at this point Aldo thought she would give Hugo the satisfaction of crying a little, making sure to keep it pretty.

She didn't. They kissed cheeks, and parted.

"Now, normally I don't go makin' promises I ain't abso-fuckin'-lutely sure I can keep," he said, shifting his weight back on his heels to look at blondie. "And I can't guarantee keepin' Sitglitz safe—"

"Entschuldigen," Adriana said with a smile. "He keeps himself safe, lieutenant."

"See now, that's where you're wrong, but I ain't gonna trouble your little head with that. We'll meet again, this world or the next." Adriana nodded, dropping him a curtsey. Aldo smiled, tugging at his moustache, pleased with the gesture.

Just like a debutante. His little girl had just learned how to do that when he left, and had curtseyed for him on his way out the door then, too.

"Don't be marryin' any Nazis while we're gone, young lady," he gave her a final warning as he turned to leave. Her laughter floated out after him as he climbed up into the front of the car, clapping Wicki on the shoulder and giving a nod to Donny and Utivich in the back.

As soon as the echo of the car's motor was dying, Adriana turned away from the window and walked straight to the back of the house, out onto the back porch. The last embers of the sunset were starting to fade.

Annie was already standing there, and the two women stood next to each other for a long quiet moment. Adriana wrapped her hand around the dagger Stiglitz had given her, warming the cold leather sheath. No sound but the wind, the cool expanse of white snow.

"I really hope they don't fuck up," Annie said eventually.

Adriana turned to look at her with the look Annie loved, the one that meant she was strategizing. The one that meant wheels were about to turn very, very quickly. "I think," she said softly, "that it is time to start getting the Nazis out of Paris."


End file.
